Lumos
by Dragon Ashes
Summary: Word of the Day one-shots. Latest: Expostulate. Harry and Hermione have a little discussion about Hermione's tendency to get herself into trouble. Sequel to #4, 'Revenant.'
1. Factotum

"...And finally, students, I would like to draw your attention to a few changes on the staff list. Professor Granger-Weasley is with us for another year as Care and Keeping of Magical Creatures teacher, and she will also be taking over Muggle Studies; regretfully, Professor Schmidt has met with an untimely end while researching endangered non-magical creatures. Hogwarts offers his condolences to his family and friends. In light of this last-minute switch you may expect some changes to your syllabus; Professor Granger-Weasley has generously agreed to keep her office open for late hours this week to accomodate those students wishing to ask questions.

"Professor Flitwick has gone off on another visit to his goblin relatives, so Professor Longbottom, our Herbology specialist, will also be teaching the lower-level Charms classes. The upper-level students will be taking classes by Floo with one of the Beaubaxtons professors as part of an exchange program. Those students are asked to double-check their schedules for travel times, as tardy departures will not be permitted by the Hogwarts Floo system; they are also reminded that unconsienceable behavior is frowned upon by the faculties of both Hogwarts and Beaubaxtons, and that any complaints from the girls at Beaubaxtons regarding ungentlemanly behavior may be grounds to revoke your Floo privileges. Those seventh-year students who are rejected from the exchange program will not be allowed to sit their Charms NEWT.

"Finally, to facilitate the exchange program on our end, we are hosting several Durmstrang students wishing to study advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts. We welcome back the Professors Potter, who will be sharing the duties for this class. Students are reminded that accosting Professor Harry Potter outside of class to ask for autographs or photographs is frowned upon by the school, and may result in detention. They are also advised not to taunt Professor Ginevra Weasley-Potter about the incident with the boggart last year. Though many of you found it entertaining, it was a traumatic experience for her and she will not be held responsible for the injuries of students who insist on bringing it up.

"On that note, I wish you all a very good year at Hogwarts, whether it be your first or your last."

The students applauded - some a little uncertainly - as they eyed the Head Table and the war heroes that sat at it. Professor Hermione Granger-Weasley leaned over to Professor Nevile Longbottom, who wound up being seated next to her. "I really wonder, sometimes, what Minerva is thinking. Cutting out two teachers? It's unheard-of!"

"Not to mention the fact that there are still a number of Dark sympathizers at Durmstrang who would love to take a crack at Harry," the normally easygoing Herbology professor muttered back. "He's not invincible, no matter what people think. The fact that he insists on teaching the students useful and practical spells is all fine and good, but it puts him at something of a risk."

"At least he's only teaching one subject. I'm practically teaching five! Coordinating an entire foreign exchange program was not in my job description."

"Come on, Hermione. You know you only got stuck with the job because you're the most organized of the lot of us. If she'd tried to have me do it, we would've had a plant exchange program instead."

"That would've been a bit simpler! I'm not her factotum. I do have a family, and I don't think they've seen me for more than ten minutes at a time since the beginning of the summer!"

"Maybe you should talk to Minerva about it."

"I've tried! I always end up outside her door with a lemon drop before I know what hit me! I swear, she's channeling...or maybe it's just the portrait."

Neville sighed into his pudding. It was going to be one of _those_ years. He wondered if they would bother doing night patrols; between Minerva, Hermione, and Ginny, the place was as good as demolished anyways. He was so glad to be able to retreat into the peace and solitude of his greenhouses. He peeked at his schedule to check the time of his first class.

7:00 a.m., First Year Charms. Joy of joys. Neville wondered if anyone would blame him for channeling a different Headmaster, one known for notoriously less cheerful methods of ensuring complaint students. He had some billowing black robes somewhere in the depths of his closet...

* * *

><p>Factotum: a person employed to do all kinds of work.<p>

If anyone's wondering, Neville is pondering channeling Professor Snape, who was Headmaster succeeding Albus Dumbledore during the seventh book. He was installed by Voldemort, and the official methods of keeping students in line during his tenure included torture.

Neville the Herbology Professor is cannon, as are Hermione's marriage to Ron and Ginny's marriage to Harry; however, in canon Neville is the only one of Harry's friends to return to Hogwarts as a teacher.


	2. Cimmerian

Snape leaned heavily against a dank wall. He edged away from that blasted Devil's Snare, which was curling back towards him. His leg ached where Hagrid's dog (there was _no way _he was going to call that monstrosity 'Fluffy') had tried to use him as a chew toy, which was inevitably where the Devil's Snare had grabbed him when he fell. He inched further down the tunnel.

Sometimes, he really, really hated being the youngest professor in the school. Dumbledore - the only person who knew what all the traps were - begged off, saying he needed to "act as a leader in times of emergency." Minerva could've circumvented most of the traps in her animagus form, but she had dust allergies. Sprout and Hooch were both 'too old and frail,' and as for the rest of the teachers...well, the less they knew, the better. Including Quirrell. _Especially _Quirrell.

The sound of something flying around caught Snape's ear as he approached the next door. That would be Hooch's test, then. He grumbled under his breath as he flung the door open. He'd never understand why Albus hadn't just warded the damn stone to hell and back, instead of making the whole thing into a ruddy quest.

The key was easy enough to find, but a bit harder to catch. The keys didn't recognize him as a teacher - Hooch, at least, had heeded his warnings about letting _anyone _past the traps except the Headmaster - and flew around desperately, trying to hide their comerade. He finally stunned the key (and half a dozen others) with a curse that bordered on the Dark Arts before gently fitting the key into the keyhole on the far side of the room. He felt magic flare as the room reset.

Minerva, it seemed, had not taken him as seriously as Hooch had. As soon as he walked into the room, a set of giant chess pieces moved to let him through. He didn't feel like arguing; Minerva was no match for him in chess, but she always put up a good fight. He noticed a chip on the white queen's pedestal as he walked by and smirked. She was using her personal chess set, then. His chess set had never liked hers; they didn't play well together. Their games usually ended badly...for her pieces.

A foul stench filled the air when Snape opened the door behind the white side of the chessboard. He barely jumped out of the way as the brute swung at him, and he landed hard on his bad leg. He'd be limping for days after this; there was no way he could explain to Poppy how he'd gotten so many injuries, and she wasn't supposed to be privy to the plans for the stone. The troll swung again, and he Disillusioned himself and retreated to a far corner, leaving the confused creature scratching its ugly head.

As he suspected, the door on the far side contained a rather nasty curse tied to the troll's consciousness. That was rather unfortunate, from Snape's point of view. Trolls were immune to most sorts of magic, except very, very dark spells. Some of the Death Eaters had been able to enforce some sort of compulsion over trolls, but it was finicky at best and he couldn't remember any of them saying how, exactly, they'd done it.

As Snape steeled himself for a rather nasty fight, a silvery cat pranced up to him, drawing the troll's attention. "Severus," the cat said in Minerva's thick brogue, "We've cornered the troll. Meet me on the first floor corridor near the picture of the Three Dancing Goblins."

The troll was confused when the cat faded, and Snape took advantage of this to slip back out into the chess room. He dashed past the board, which seemed to be eyeing him warily, before grabbing a broom from Hooch's key room to fly over the Devil's Snare and back up to the third floor. He managed to dodge Hagrid's mutt with judicious use of a stink-bomb charm that had it scrambling to cover all three of its noses with only two paws. Luckily, there was a teacher's staircase nearby that lead right down to the first...

Snape caught a glimpse of the edge of a cloak around the bend of the winding staircase and limped faster. Unfortunately, the noise he made alerted the interloper to his presence and the footsteps sped up. Snape skidded to a halt on the other side of the door, but there was no one in sight. He staggered along the corridor towards the picture of the Three Dancing Goblins, but was nearly blindsided by Minerva as he came to an adjoining hallway. He followed her, belatedly noticing the sound of something wooden being smashed to bits. A figure moved alongside him, and he saw Quirrell's absurd turbin out of the corner of his eye. Snape sped up. The turbin gave him the creeps; if he didn't know better, he'd think it was watching him...and for some reason, it felt familiar.

Later that night, once the excitement had died down, Snape found himself seated in the headmaster's office making a report for the first time in eleven years. As always, Albus sighed, rubbed his eyes in an insultingly disbelieving way, and offered him a lemon drop for his trouble. As always, Snape refused, but he did accept the offer of tea...just to throw the old man off.

It didn't. It just made him twinkle in that ridiculous, innocent-old-man way.

"Severus, be patient. I'm sure whoever is after the stone will slip up eventually. There is no need to panic. You did well."

Snape snorted into his cup. "I assure you, the defences are working admirably...except for Minerva's. Her chess set is of little use if it's going to lay down arms at the first sign of trouble. It's like they have no...courage."

"After all the times you've destroyed those pieces I'm not surprised that they chose to let you through, given the chance."

"Hmph." He took another sip of tea. "Albus, if you're going to send me down that bloody cimmerian hole every time Quirrell-"

"You have no proof it's Quirrell, Severus."

"-makes a move against the stone, you are going to have to do something for me."

"And what is that?" Albus asked, in the overly-patient tones of someone pandering to a small child or someone with very little common sense.

Snape growled. "Tell me how to get past that blasted mutt!"

The answering twinkle in the headmaster's eyes told Snape that he wouldn't like the answer.

* * *

><p>Cimmerian: very dark, gloomy; deep<p> 


	3. Heterotelic

Albus Dumbledore's mood changed like the tide. He could be a battle-hardened war captain one minute, and a doddering old fool the next. It was no surprise to anyone except the first years, then, when their beloved Professor Dumbledore went from smiling and casting color-change charms on the Halloween bats to looking very grave and serious in less time than it took to blink.

The cause of the headmaster's change in mood, the children saw, was Professor Snape. No one really liked him, except the Slytherins. That was probably because Professor Snape didn't really like anybody...except the Slytherins. The older students, the ones who remembered him as a student, liked to complain loudly about how Professor Slughorn had been a much better teacher and to call him 'Snivelus' behind his back.

The younger students didn't dare.

Regardless, there were several worried glances towards the head table. Professor Snape had collapsed forwards into his supper (or lack thereof; he didn't eat much, even at the big school feasts) and was convulsing, clutching his left arm like a drowning man clings to a bit of driftwood.

No one spoke. No one moved. After a moment of stunned silence, Professor Dumbledore nodded to Madam Pomfrey, who left her own dinner and went to help the Potions Master. She practically carried him out of the Great Hall, leaving a large group of students trying to determine whether cheering was entirely appropriate under the circumstances.

It wasn't until the next morning that the news broke: He Who Must Not Be Named was dead! The entire school was given a week off of classes, and special arrangements were made for students to visit family. In the confusion, no one thought to look for Professor Snape until he didn't show up for his first class on Monday morning the following week.

As it happened, Professor Snape had been given an extra week of sabbatical for dubious reasons delivered by an overly cheerful Professor Dumbledore on Tuesday. After breakfast, Professor Dumbledore himself disappeared for several hours.

Only Poppy Pomfrey knew that both men were holed up, first in the Hospital Wing (while Snape recovered from magical backlash) and then in the Headmaster's office (while Snape recovered from a broken heart).

Poppy knew part of Snape's story, which was more than most and certainly more than Snape himself would approve of. She that he had been friends with Lily Evans from childhood, and that friendship on his part had grown into unrequited love. She knew what had happened in his fifth year, and partially blamed him for it. She knew that Dumbledore trusted him, and that he had still been in contact with He Who Must Not Be Named. And she knew that he was nearly broken by the death of Lily Potter.

When Snape emerged the following Monday, he was a different man; a harder man. It wasn't until years later, when Lily Potter's son started Hogwarts, that Poppy realized what it was.

Severus Snape had given up long ago. His sole purpose in life was to protect the legacy of the woman he could not save: a child he despised perhaps even more than he loved.

* * *

><p>Heterotelic: having the purpose of its existence or occurence apart from itself<p>

'Cause Snape has a very odd view of Harry, being at the same time the son of his childhood tormentor (James Potter) and the only child of the woman he loved (Lily Evans nee Potter). And I hold that school nurses are like bartenders: they know more than you'd think, but they keep quiet unless asked.


	4. Revenant

Hermione Granger's hands shook as she accepted the iced tumbler from the waiter. The harassed young man - probably in college, by the look of him - stumbled on, not paying any more attention to the young woman with bushy brown curls nursing her beer in the corner of his London pub. An upstart band pounded drums and strings to the beat of some home-cooked tune. Hermione had picked this place at random to drown her sorrows, but she'd had an idea in mind of the place she was looking for: small, obscure, and smoky. It was the sort of place where no one would look twice at her slightly outlandish clothing - an odd mix of Muggle and magical that raised eyebrows at the Ministry - or the carved vine wood twig holding her bun together. It was near Halloween, and more than one of the pub's patrons were wearing dark and unusual garments. The young witch looked around, trying to steady her hands long enough to raise her glass to her mouth. She was determined to finish at least a half-liter, on the principle of the thing.

Suddenly, a figure appeared out of the crowd that made her blink the growing alcoholic haze from her eyes. Tall, black-clad, and striking; long black hair and a slim profile. Hermione let out a breath she was only half-conscious of taking. It...couldn't be. The Ministry had declared Severus Snape dead after a team or Aurors and mediwizards had recovered his body from the Shrieking Shack following the Final Battle. The funeral had been a small, closed-casket affair; Hermione herself had attended mainly to support Harry - who had insisted on going - and to pay respects to a brilliant man who had done an admittedly admirable job under horrific circumstances. The Ministry had been tight-lipped throughout their investigation, citing lack of evidence. That, unfortunately, hadn't stopped Rita Skeeter...

The man in black turned, shaking Hermione out of her reverie. He was just a bit too short, his teeth a bit too straight, his stance a bit too easy. His nose was the wrong shape altogether, and she was sure her old professor would never have the patience to listen to that silly little woman in the hot pink dress prattle on drunkenly about something indiscernible over the noise of the band. No, he was not Severus Snape, regardless of his brief resemblance.

Still, Hermione's curiosity had been piqued. What had really happened to Snape? What was the Ministry covering up? A year and a half was plenty of time to investigate Shape's involvement in the war, especially since the average Death Eater trial had lasted under a week. Why hadn't he been exonerated? Even if it was posthumous, the man deserved a break...

...And _that _was the beer, she thought as a rush of light-headedness forced her to rest her head on her hand. She took one more sip, grimacing at the shallow remains. Then she remembered her reason for coming all the way out here in the first place and finished her drink in two big gulps. Heaven help Ronald Weasley if she saw him before she was properly sober again.

.oO0Oo.

Monday morning came up all too soon for Hermione. The events of Friday night were still a bit hazy, but the almost-Snape wouldn't leave her mind. Sighing, she realized that it was becoming an Issue. It was like Dumbledore's riddle in the Tales of Beedle the Bard, or Harry's voices back in second year. It would haunt her day and night until she solved it. She huffed, shutting her copy of the Ministry Guidelines for Relations with Non-Human Species with a bit more force than necessary.

Her office was tucked away in a corner, down one of the hallways Umbridge had dragged her down that day she and the boys broke into the Ministry. The area was largely vacated; her only departmental coworker, an awkward young man named Proofrock, nodded to her as she passed. She returned the gesture. He was used to her comings and goings, particularly to do research in the massive General Library or the Hall of Public Records. He wouldn't report her to her boss.

The Hall of Public Records would be a good place to start, she thought. At the very least, it would give her some idea of what information waspublicly available. No sense in digging for some important detail that was hidden in plain sight. Six months of dealing with beaurocracy day in and day out had given her a newfound appreciation for meticulous study and Slytherin ideals.

As she entered the Hall, she murmured a greeting to one of the Record Keepers (who nodded in return), then paused to bask in the bibliophilic glory. Rich mahogany bookshelves formed floor-to-ceiling walls that divided the open space into a series of dim alleys. Beyond, an open space lit by an unearthly white mass of light was filled with rows of individual reading desks. A few round tables were arranged around the edges, seemingly out of place in the world of neat edges and harsh lines; it was towards one of these that Hermione gravitated. The Record Keepers, accustomed to her presence, knew to leave her alone. It was, she reflected, a blessing; if the Ministry was hiding something, then broadcasting her intentions was a poor way to begin.

Seven and a half hours later, she was about ready to give up and ask for help. Most of the records on the ongoing Snape investigation were, apparently, classified. She had found references to evidence in the transcripts of the Death Eater trials that could have come from him - details about the inner workings of Voldemort's followers that could only have come from someone who was there - but no mention was made of the source of that information. Sighing, she returned the last scroll of parchment to its place and headed back to her office to gather her things.

Proofrock was gone by the time Hermione got back to her office, so she had no warning of the head of hair that appeared in front of her when she opened the door. For a moment she had the urge to throw something, before she registered the face beneath the hair.

"Ginny!"

Her intruder leaped up. "Oh, Hermione! I'm so sorry! Ron is such a git..."

Hermione snorted. "Not your fault."

She sunk into the other chair in the tiny office. "Now, I know you didn't come all the way down to my little corner of the Ministry to verbally abuse your lying cheat of a brother. How have you been?"

Ginny's response was to hold up her left hand with a smile that nearly eclipsed the shining ring on her finger.

Hermione squealed and clapped her friend on the shoulders. "Oh, Ginny! Congratulations! When...where? How?"

An hour and a half later, both young women were collapsed onto a scarred wooden table in the Leaky, overcome with hysterics.

"He DIDN'T!" Hermione shrieked. "He actually proposed to you over dinner at the Burrow!"

Ginny guffawed. "I really don't think he meant to...it just slipped out! He had to summon the ring from home!"

"He didn't! What did your parents say?"

"Well..." Ginny took a sip of her water, "Mum was running around trying to get the treacle tart out of the oven, so she got him first - even before I did! she just grabbed him and..." She gave an admirable re-enactment of her mother's enthusiastic embrace.

The image of the Weasley matron pushing her daughter's brand-new fiance into her opulent bosom in a moment of rapture sent Hermione back into fits.

"Then Dad grabbed him and clapped him on the back; then Bill had to shake his hand, and George and Charlie started moaning about losing another bachelor, and Ron snorted his butterbeer..."

The thought sobered Hermione. After a moment, Ginny caught her breath. "Oh, Hermione...I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..."

Hermione waved a hand in feigned nonchalance.

"No, really. It wasn't fair to you. I don't believe for a minute that that Lavender cow was just kissing him randomly. Really, I don't blame you for breaking things off."

Hermione sighed. If she hadn't seen Ron and Lavender snogging on Friday - in the hallway near her office, no less - she would have been at the weekly Weasley dinner at the Burrow. She hadn't been invited that week. To be fair, she _had _sent a howler to Ron before heading off to that obscure old pub. Ron was still living at home, after all, and Mrs. Weasley had never thought much of the Muggleborn witch who had an on-again, off-again romance with her youngest son. It was a remnant of Rita Skeeter's influence from her fourth year at Hogwarts that had never truly faded. Really, it was no surprise she hadn't been invited to dinner; still, she couldn't help but feel a pang of loss for what could have been.

Ginny slipped a hand over one of Hermione's. "Ron's a prat. He's...confused, I think, by the war. Everything's changing, and Ron...well, Ron hates things he can't control. He's not like Harry, who thrives on the unknown. You, at least, have some sort of inner drive to figure out what you don't know. Ron just sort of...bumbles about without guidance. Especially now that he and you and Harry are going your separate ways."

When Hermione didn't respond except to poke at the remains of her fish and chips, she sighed.

"Well, don't worry too much. Give Ron a few years; then see if _you're _willing to take _him_back. Now, what great cause are you jousting for these days?"

Hermione hesitated. "Well...work in the office has been slow. Some days I think the Ministry just shunted me off into a corner where they could...minimize the damage I could do while maximizing on my status as a war hero. There isn't enough _work_for two people and a supervisor, especially when the higher-ups drag their feet on passing relevant legislation!"

Ginny just sat forward in her seat.

"Oh, fine. I'm..." She looked around, and cast a nonverbal Muffliato just to be safe. "I'm researching Snape."

Ginny stared at her, stunned. Hermione fidgeted. Maybe telling someone else was a bad idea.

"But...why? Are you trying to get back at Skeeter? There are better ways..."

"No, no. It's just...have you ever wondered what _happened_to him?"

"He _died_. You saw it!"

"I thought I did...but really, Muggles have ways of surviving injuries like his; assuming he found a way to deal with Nagini's venom, it's within the realm of possibility. Plus, have you noticed how the Ministry's dragging its feet on exonerating him? Everything else Harry asked for, especially the first few months, they gave him without question. Why this? What are they trying to hide?" She took a deep breath. Ginny looked a little lost. "Heh...sorry. I guess I got a little carried away."

"No, no...I did ask. Just...be careful, all right? You, of all people, should know how dangerous the Ministry can be. If they're trying to hide something...you may not like what you find."

Much later that night, Hermione sat on her bed in her little London flat. On the comforter in front of her were several scrolls of notes and a brand new notebook. She loved new notebooks, a carry-over from her pre-Hogwarts days. She'd stopped by a general store on the way home from the Leaky, brushed her fingertips over an amusingly large selection of bright red books, and dug a Slytherin green one out of the bottom of a stack. She pulled a gel pen (much more efficient than quills for extended writing) out of the package and began to copy down her notes.

Ginny was right; it wasn't safe to just go poking around like a...well, like a Gryffindor, Snape would say. It was, Hermione mused, time to think like a Slytherin. She finished quickly, warded the notebook with several charms she'd wheedled out of Madam Pince after graduation, destroyed her notes, and went to bed.

.oO0Oo.

That whole week was one of the most frustrating of Hermione's short term at the Ministry. There was little public information on Snape; since his trial was still in progress, the record was closed. Even the trial, unlike those of the other Death Eaters, was kept under literal lock and key. Keeping Ginny's warning in mind, Hermione quashed her impulse to ask help from the Record Keepers, no matter how frustrated she got. A lesser witch would have given up, but Hermione Granger had never thought of herself as being lesser than anyone else.

She persevered. Every day, she set aside two hours for scouring the Library and the Hall of Public Records - rarely in a single chunk, and always at different times of the day and interspersed with her other 'work.' It was difficult to do - she grew daily in the realization that her talents were being deliberately wasted - but it gave her a reason to get up and go into work every day. For the first time in a very long time, Hermione couldn't wait for the weekend to end.

When Monday morning finally came 'round again, Hermione found herself occupied with the first draft of a new centaur treaty that her boss was adamant _had _to be finished and on his desk before noon. Marcus Quill was a stout man with a round face that hid a brilliance bordering on insanity. He was relentless when he was on a mission, a trait which Hermione both sympathized with and despaired of. Thus, she was down near the courtrooms when Draco Malfoy was escorted through the halls by two Aurors.

Trying not to look too suspicious, Hermione trailed the small group until they reached the elevator and ducked in behind them. Two others - a young wizard buried under a stack of books and an elderly witch in shimmering green robes - were already in the elevator, so Hermione felt a little less like a stalker.

Draco, for his part, looked livid. The two Aurors kept whispering in his ears. The witch and wizard pushed past, heading for the exit; Hermione huddled in the back of the elevator, hiding behind an open book in case one of the Aurors remembered she was there.

Clearly, they didn't. "Mr. Malfoy," one said, "If you persist in refusing to testify..."

Malfoy exploded. "Never! I'll never help you! You're trying to find something, anything against him. I won't...he did enough damage to himself." He sneered. "Must really sting to scrape the bottom of the barrel, hmm? Can't convict him yourself; you have to go asking his crimes from a bloody Death Eater? Why not just kill him and be -" He was cut off by a quick Silencio from one of the Aurors and frog-marched out at the next stop.

Hermione held her breath, not sure whether to announce her presence or try to hide, but the only one who looked back was Malfoy, wild-eyed and looking half-mad. There was a keen intelligence and awareness in those eyes, though, that prompted Hermione to nod to him. He half-winked, which made her nervous, but he didn't give her away and she wondered just how much he suspected...or knew.

There was a piece of paper on the floor of the elevator that she didn't notice until she left herself. It read, in an awkward scrawl that suggested he'd written it without looking: "MM,3P3110." It took her a moment to decipher it, but when she did her face whitened.

'MM' could only mean one place. She knew from her research that Draco and his mother were under house arrest. Malfoy Manor...the one place she desperately wanted to avoid. '3P3110' was a bit harder to decipher (especially since Malfoy's P looked a bit like a badly formed 8 and his 3's looked like B's), but as best as she could tell it meant that Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, traitor, coward and notorious Muggle-hater, was trying to arrange a meeting her at 3 p.m. on Halloween...which was, by her calculations, that upcoming Sunday.

Hermione's mind raced, trying to justify not meeting Malfoy on his own turf to follow a lead she was reasonably sure he couldn't possibly know about. It was ridiculous, unreasonable, and looked like a trap. With a sigh, Hermione spent the rest of the day dividing her attention between refining the centaur treaty and dissecting the terms of Malfoy's house arrest.

.oO0Oo.

Sunday morning came all too soon. Being a rather important magical holiday, nonessential Ministry workers were given a long weekend, Friday through Monday. That meant that Hermione was not only separated from all avenues of research for an extra day, but she also was stuck puttering around her little apartment. Her only relief was dinner on Saturday night with Ginny and Harry at Grimmauld Place to celebrate their engagement and catch up on gossip. Luckily, either Harry had grown a bit of tact or Ginny had beaten some into him, because Ron was neither invited nor mentioned for the entire evening. Hermione felt his absence keenly still, but it was more of a betrayal than a loss.

Getting ready for the meeting was a bit of a challenge as well. As far as she knew, there was no wizarding protocol for what to wear when returning to an estate where one had been brutally tortured after being invited there by the heir apparent, who was a longstanding enemy of everything she stood for, to possibly discuss a lead to a case being actively covered up by the Ministry of Magic. In the end, Hermione - feeling very silly - put her hair up with a judicious application of Sleakeasy and donned a set of formal, dark purple robes. They were less comfortable than her usual style (a set of modern-cut robes over jeans and a nice shirt) but they seemed...appropriate.

Thus, Hermione was rather fidgety when she approached Malfoy Manor at ten minutes to three. An Auror at the gate greeted her, recorded her excuse for visiting (she vaguely recalled stammering something about 'putting the past to rest') and showed her through the doorway.

Security was unusually lax, at least personnel-wise. Though there were specific wards and tracing spells on the Manor and its inhabitants, the lack of heavy guard gave it the feel of a Medieval fortress rather than a prison. The Auror - who introduced himself as Davis - clearly didn't mind the position; in fact, he claimed he was invited up to dinner once a week by the lady of the house herself.

Hermione froze when she came to the drawing room. Despite the obvious effort that had been put into redecorating it since her last visit, she could still hear the faint echoes of Bellatrix's crazed laughter and the sharp edge of her knife. She resisted the urge to rub the scar that still lay on her arm, despite the best attempts of healers to remove it after the war. Even magic couldn't fix everything, she thought grimly.

Draco appeared a moment later from one of the many doors leading to various parts of the house. He took one look at Hermione and offered both her and Davis tea, but Davis begged off, saying he had to go back to watching the gate. Malfoy, to Hermione's surprise, gave him what passed for a friendly smile among Slytherins (and a rather arrogant sneer among ordinary folk) and told him that he'd send out a few biscuits with a house elf.

It was a measure of Hermione's nervousness that she didn't react to Malfoy's statement; after all, it was Dobby - the Malfoys' old house elf - who had started SPEW. She allowed Malfoy to lead her into a small room with pink curtains and a table set with tea for three.

"My mother is planning to join us a bit later," Malfoy said, still keeping up his pretense of politeness. "She would like to meet you."

"We've...met."

Malfoy's smile slipped a little. "She would like to meet you formally to thank you for all you and your friends have done for our family, and to...apologize for the circumstances of your last visit." The last part seemed a bit forced.

He waved his wand, and a tea pot and a plate of chocolate biscuits appeared. "Tea, Granger?"

Hermione didn't move. "First, Malfoy, let me clear one thing up. I'm a Gryffindor. We may be out of school, but the fact remains that our house selection identifies fundamental characteristics about our personalities. I appreciate that you are making an effort to be polite - Merlin knows why - but that doesn't mean I trust you."

Malfoy glanced from her face to the wand tucked in a dueling sheath up one sleeve. He sat back, running a hand through his hair; abruptly, Hermione realized that his hair had been cut much shorter, probably in an effort to distinguish himself from his father. The elder Malfoy had earned a lengthy Azkaban sentence, after all, though it had been mitigated from life to a mere ten years due to his family's role in keeping Harry alive. Draco and Narcissa, because they had actively helped Harry and hadn't thrown curses for Voldemort's side during the Final Battle (that anyone witnessed, anyway), escaped Azkaban altogether.

"By all means," Malfoy said at last, waving a hand at the tea. "I have no reason to poison you, Granger. I don't expect you to believe me, though; I won't take offense if you want to cast your own spells."

She did, nonverbally casting a modified detection spell on the pot that listed ingredients on a scrap of parchment she dug out of her handbag rather than detecting any substance in particular. "Calming drought, Malfoy?"

"How did you...never mind. We merely wished you not to get...excited."

"A bit of an insult, isn't it? Especially since you still haven't told me why you wanted me here."

Malfoy waved his hand again, summoning another tea pot and waiting while Hermione ran her charm again...then proceeded to do the same to her cup, plate, silverware, and napkin. "Perhaps; but just as you don't trust me, I don't explicitly trust you. However, I believe that we may come to an agreement that will prove beneficial to the both of us."

"Regarding?"

"I can't tell you."

Hermione eyed him over the brim of her cup, now full of what tasted like Earl Gray. "Clearly, you've thought around this little issue. What makes you think I can help you?"

"A little bird told me you were already on the case." Malfoy took a sip of his own tea, obviously enjoying the fact that he had information she didn't.

So he did know. It was a struggle not to chuck her cup at his head. "I _know_you know what I'm doing, Malfoy. You wouldn't have invited me into your house if you didn't. I want to know how, and why you are bothering to associate with me given our...past."

"Oh, is that all? Here I thought you'd ask something difficult. Well then. I know because Astoria Greenglass saw you and Miss Weasley in the Leaky Cauldron almost two weeks ago."

"But how...?"

"Astoria can read lips."

"...Ah."

"Yes; apparently, she's always had a knack for it. It isn't a completely fail-proof method of information gathering, but...certain names are composed of a specific set of consonants that make them recognizable to one who knows how to look." He shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Astoria hasn't had any luck teaching me."

Something about the way he said 'Astoria' struck Hermione. "You're dating?"

Malfoy sneered openly. "_Courting_, Granger. We're not Muggles."

"Oh. Well, congratulations, then."

"Why?"

"Everyone deserves happiness, especially after what we lived through."

Malfoy hid a faint look of mocking disbelief behind a biscuit. He was saved from having to answer by the arrival of his mother.

Narcissa Malfoy had changed in the year and a half since the Final Battle. While Draco appeared pretty much the same (except for the hair), Narcissa looked like she had just been released from a short stay in Azkaban. Her clothes were neater than Hermione remembered, from the few times she'd seen her (which, admittedly, had mostly been in the middle of battle), but there were dark circles under her eyes and her hair was coming out of her bun. She sat without saying a word to either of them on a chair pulled out by a house elf that dodged her heels.

After accepting a cup of tea from her son, she turned to Hermione. "Forgive me, Miss Granger. I have been a bit ill lately, but we had no way of rescheduling our meeting. I hope we didn't inconvenience you?"

"No..." She had to bite off the instinctive "Ma'am;" Mrs. Malfoy had always reminded her of a snooty schoolmarm, setting off her pedagogical instincts.

"Good. Draco, did you tell her why she is here?" A significant look passed between mother and son, and Mrs. Malfoy nodded. "I see, then. Well, Miss Granger, please accept this letter on behalf of myself and my family. We haven't had the chance to thank you properly for your assistance to our family, especially after what you suffered at the hands of my sister the last time you were here."

"It was an honor to see justice served. You helped Harry; it was only right that we return the favor."

"Indeed." She made a motion to the house elf, who stood wringing its hands by the side of the table. He disappeared in a pop. "As you undoubtedly know, things at the Ministry are...not always what they appear. Justice, it seems, is not always served as...generously...as it was in our case.

"Information is difficult to obtain when one is cut off from the world as we are. What we know comes mostly from our guards, or from what few visitors we have. Recently, however, the Ministry has contacted us for help in a most peculiar affair. We ourselves are magically bound not to speak of these events except to each other, to write about them, or to discuss them in front of others. To that end, Miss Granger, I must ask you to leave the room." She turned away, obviously finished.

Hermione vindictively stole a chocolate biscuit on her way out of the room. She smirked when she shut the door; a chair had been put for her in the hallway, angled so she could listen at the crack in the door. She could clearly hear what was being discussed in the tea room, though the conversation seemed contrived to pass as much information as possible in a very short period of time.

.oO0Oo.

That evening, Hermione sat once again on her comforter with the Slytherin green notebook propped open in front of her. With a shaking hand, she readjusted her gel pen and wrote:

_MALFOY MANOR, HALLOWEEN _

_SEVERUS SNAPE LIVES? _

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC? _

* * *

><p>Revenant - one who returns after death or a long absence<p>

To be continued...


	5. Expostulate

This is a sequel to "Lumos" #4, "Revenant." Because I had so much fun writing it.

* * *

><p>"Hermione, I don't think it'll work."<p>

"Just _try_. You're the Boy Who Lived! What are they going to say?"

"No."

"Come on, Harry..." Hermione sat the edge of a lumpy purple couch in Grimmauld Place in her jeans and powder blue sweater. The paisley brown robes she'd worn to work lay draped over the couch behind her.

Harry rubbed between his eyes. "Not me; it's just...they'll shoot me down immediately. There's no way the Ministry is going to get their heads out of their arses long enough to exonerate Snape. Trust me. I've been bugging Kingsley and Arthur about it every other month since the Final Battle. They just say there's no evidence and brush me off."

"Have you ever wondered why?"

Green eyes met hers through a messy mop hair. Hermione made a note to get Ginny to give him a haircut. "I...well, he _was _a Death Eater, and he killed Dumbledore...and he tortured children when he was headmaster...oh, don't give me that look, Hermione. I _know _he made the best of things. I _know _things would've been a lot worse if someone else had been appointed. It's just...I don't know."

The witch sat back and looked her friend over. She really didn't want to push. Harry was having a hard enough time of things; between completing his rookie year as an Auror and his upcoming marriage, he was under quite a bit of stress. She'd planted a seed of doubt; maybe, once she had more solid evidence, Harry would be more amenable.

"This is about your research, isn't it? What you were talking with Ginny about?"

She'd forgotten that Harry had matured a little in the past year; his powers of observation were increasing. Slowly. And his tact still needed work. "I'm going to _kill _Ginny! She was the one who warned me to be careful!"

"Oy, calm down! We're engaged. She was worried about you. She wanted to make sure someone's going to have your back if things went pear-shaped. She made me swear to secrecy, and said she wasn't going to tell anyone else. I think she was going to ask you about it over dinner on Monday."

Hermione bit down a pang of guilt. Her visit to Malfoy Manor on Sunday had given her a lot to think about. If Snape really was alive, as the Malfoys thought, then she had probably stumbled upon one of the biggest scandals of the post-war magical world. She didn't think the Ministry would let her get away with it easily.

She realized that she was probably in way over her head; but then, she wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. It really was lucky that she had Harry on her side...especially now that she and Ron weren't speaking to each other. If she wound up in trouble with the Ministry, Harry would rescue her.

Her would-be hero leaned in. "I know it's redundant, and you probably don't want to hear this, but...be careful, all right? Don't go chasing down Death Eaters looking for clues or anything."

"Er..."

"And...I would've told you this before, but it's sort of restricted. Malfoy - Draco, that is - has been in the Ministry quite a bit. Testifying or something; I'm not sure, exactly. I heard rumors that the Ministry was offering to shorten his father's sentence in return for information, but he was being stubborn...anyways, I thought I'd warn you. He might be 'reformed,' but he's still a nasty bit of work. Just...keep close to your office for the next few days, all right?"

Hermione folded and unfolded her fingers nervously. "Hmm. Well. About that..."

* * *

><p>Expostulate: to reason earnestly with someone against something that person intends to do or has done<p>

There will probably be more (cue chorus of groans); maybe not concurrently, but this is too interesting a story (for me, at least) to drop.


End file.
